


Willing It All To Be Right

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotional Sex, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Times, I never know how to tag that so, M/M, Rimming, Technically Shiro is Kuron, but you would too, keith cries okay, oh well, set in s3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 21:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21143846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: "If you want to go, I won't stop you."The unspokenbutlingers between them, electric. Goosebumps prickle up Keith's skin in a long wave—it crawls up his legs, his belly, and his arms to skitter like lightning over his scalp. Shiro takes slow steps forward, closing the distance between them. Keith's caught between him and the door, and part of him wonders if there's a trap, because things don't go well for him and the last nine years on his own have proven that.But..."Yeah?" Keith asks, raspy and far more breathless than he'd like at the moment.Keith has spent so long searching for Shiro that, when he returns, it almost doesn't feel real.But, whatever tonight is, it's not a dream.





	Willing It All To Be Right

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Slouph_Art untitled Sheith NSFW piece #1](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/529424) by Slouph_Art. 
  * Inspired by [Slouph_Art untitled Sheith NSFW piece #2](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/529427) by Slouph_Art. 

> Thanks to [@aryagraceling](https://twitter.com/Aryagraceling) for being such a great beta, this wouldn't be the same without you!
> 
> Inspired by [@Slouph_art's](https://twitter.com/slouph_art) amazing work! Go check them out, linked above!
> 
> (Happy birthday, Keef!)

Shiro's spent three days in the medical bay. Three long, unfocused days that fill Keith with nothing but every possible negative outcome.

Keith had 'accidentally' fallen asleep in an uncomfortable chair each night, facing the healing pod. He couldn't risk not being there when Shiro woke; he'd spent much of the time studiously ignoring the small voice inside him, one that whispered that Shiro wouldn't wake, that Keith had been too late, that Keith had failed him. Keith couldn't bear to miss even a single moment so soon after Shiro's miraculous return to them.

It was only by Coran's decree that Keith spent any time outside the med bay, telling him to go to the team and give updates as needed, to take a breather when Keith spent too long staring at that blank, unmoving face.

Keith is winding down another nervous training routine when he gets the news.

_"Come in, Number Four!"_

Coran's voice cuts through the careful meditative rhythm Keith's leaning into. He stumbles and gets flung by the gladiator, hits the wall, and groans. "End training," he calls to the machine. With military precision, it stops, straightens from its prowling crouch, and leaps into its holding slot in the wall.

"What is it?" Keith asks breathlessly, his hand cradling his ear as if to hear better, even though the comms unit is built into his helmet. He flexes trembling fingers and shakily finds his feet. "Is Shiro okay? Is he—did he…?"

_"You should come here when you can, you'll want to see for yourself."_

A thousand scenarios unfold before him. Shiro had been starving when Keith had found him, drifting aimlessly in a ship with no fuel. He'd been dangerously low on oxygen, and the life support display had been blaring its warnings when Keith had managed to claw his way into the small fighter. Who knows how long that had been going on, how the hypoxia affected his brain and organs? Neither Coran nor Allura knew if they'd be able to help him. They'd exchanged secretive, worried glances when Keith had dragged him through the castleship toward the medical chamber.

No one expected Shiro to survive, but Keith knew better. He knew Shiro. Shiro would pull through.

That's what he'd told himself for months, whispered like a prayer under his breath during every sweep of aching, empty space.

"Coran, just—just tell me, okay?" He's through the door and into the hallway before he realizes he's moved.

A shuffle, then a pneumatic hiss, but Coran doesn't continue. A low groan follows a hacking cough. Keith's worry sharpens, and he hurries toward the medbay.

_"Keith…?"_

A word, a single word, and it nearly brings him to his knees. "Shiro!"

Keith drops into a dead run and barrels through the empty hallways. He only slows when the medbay doors don't open as fast as he needs them, and he jogs into the room, breathing hard and even more sweaty. Coran gives him a big smile, but Keith's gaze is trapped elsewhere.

"Shiro," he says again. The word wavers, half-broken in the quiet room. Keith tears off his helmet and drops it from shaking hands. "I— God, you're—"

"I'm okay," Shiro answers. He tries to stand and wobbles. Keith closes the distance between them and catches Shiro when he stumbles, tucking himself under one big arm and taking Shiro's weight for his own. "I'm okay, Keith," he mumbles, "I promise."

"I don't know that," Keith murmurs back softly. He helps Shiro to a nearby examination table at Coran's direction, his hand never leaving Shiro—rubbing at his shoulder, his back, frantic with the need to reassure himself that Shiro's here, that Shiro's real and alive and back with them, against all odds. An urge to bury his nose in the long hair at Shiro's nape threatens to overwhelm him, and Keith gnashes his teeth against it.

Coran is methodically slow in his examination, testing reflexes and doing his level best at interpreting human anatomical responses. He presses his ear to Shiro's chest. Keith feels the way Shiro stiffens and smooths both hands over Shiro's shoulders, tentative and unsure. Shiro's done this for him, been a reliable and warm weight against his shaking shoulders when he became overwhelmed. He hopes it might be right for Shiro, too.

Somehow satisfied, Coran smiles, though it carries a shadow of worry in its wideness. "How do you feel, Shiro?"

Shiro shrugs, muscles rolling smoothly beneath Keith's fingers. "I—okay, I guess?" He forces a chuckle. "I mean, considering."

Coran nods sagely. "You should still rest, I think. I've seen many cases of space sickness set in many much older than you earlier than this. You were in rough shape, Number One," he says, and the words are too bright and cheerful for the darkness that still sits in his gaze. Coran meets Keith's stare for a moment before turning back to Shiro with his near trademark breeziness. "No heavy exertion and such. Take a break, Shiro—oh," he snaps his fingers, an eureka moment, "you can pretend you're on vacation!"

Keith nods and relaxes his grip on Shiro's shirt, unclenching where he'd mindlessly fisted the fabric between his fingers. "I'll—"

Shiro tenses beneath him, and Keith cuts off.

"I mean," Keith starts again, quickly backpedaling. Adam had been so clingy, so overprotective near the end; he would have wrapped Shiro in cotton and bubble wrap if he could have made Shiro sit still long enough for it. "I'm here if you need me," Keith says lamely.

It's a herculean effort to pull himself away. Keith starts cleaning up the supplies near the healing pod, needing something to do, some way to make himself useful, even though everything in him screams to be closer, to wrap himself around Shiro and keep him safe.

Maybe he and Adam have more in common than Keith thought.

"No heavy lifting for a while, got it."

Shiro is unflappable as always, which is comforting, but shouldn't he be more concerned? Maybe it's normal. He stands from the table with a groan and stretches, the short sleeves of the hospital gown-like garment pulling up with every move of his arms. "Nothing too exciting—we're on a magical castle, in the middle of an intergalactic war for the fate of the universe. I'll try," he finishes dryly.

Keith watches with rapt attention. Coran, too, but with a far more medical eye, helping Shiro through the stretches, checking the range of motion in his movements. His prognosis doesn't change; Shiro is allowed to leave under the strict orders for bed rest.

Shiro finally turns to Keith, shaking his head, and gives him that soft, small smile. "Wanna walk with me?"

Anywhere, Keith almost promises. Anywhere for Shiro. Anywhere with Shiro.

"Sure," he says instead and falls into Shiro's orbit, as natural as breathing.

Their arms occasionally brush as they walk. Shiro takes halting steps that grow steadier as they go, and he doesn't shrug off Keith's hand when he stumbles. Keith keeps his fingers locked around Shiro's wrist and belatedly realizes they only almost touch when he pulls them away. A flash of heat pools in his gut at the warm smile Shiro slants his way.

Oh, God. This is—this is bad, isn't it? It's Shiro, and they're friends. They're just friends, and Keith is dying, just a little bit, at the everything burning beneath his rib cage.

"Hey." They're at Shiro's door already. How'd that happen? Shiro lets himself in and ushers Keith in behind. The door clicks shut and seems to echo in the quiet room that has sat empty in Shiro's months-long absence. "You okay, buddy?"

Keith spies his jacket among the rumpled bedding that lay in a nest on the floor beside the bed. His stomach drops. "I'm fine," he tries, but it comes out thin and shaky. Keith tears his eyes away and hopes Shiro doesn't see. "Fine! I'm fine."

Shiro frowns and narrows his eyes. As if in slow motion, he turns and Keith reaches for his hand, vying for his attention once more, but he's too late.

"Oh, Keith."

The words, soft, punched-out little sounds, hit him like a physical blow. Keith watches numbly as Shiro pads across the floor and bends to pick the jacket up, ignoring the blankets. Shiro stares at it in his hands, half-turned toward Keith, his face unreadable.

Keith wants the floor to open up and eject him into the void of space.

"I..." What can he say to this? _ I slept in here like a dog waiting for his master, _ maybe, or _ I missed you so much I couldn't stand it_, or _ I begged Black to not let me pilot her again because it felt like admitting you were dead. _

Or: _ I'm pretty sure I’m in love with you, and I don't know what to do about it. _

Keith settles on, "Must've forgotten that, sorry," and reaches for his jacket with numb fingers. Shiro turns to face him fully, raises his eyes and stares at Keith's face.

"Keith," Shiro says again, gutted. _ "Keith." _

Shiro drops the jacket and reaches for him instead. His metal hand twines with Keith's own and tugs him forward until they're a mere few inches apart. Heat radiates off Shiro like a fire.

"You were gone." The words are small and pathetic, and Keith can feel the weight of the last few months threatening to drag him down again, as it did in the beginning, the pain of Shiro's disappearance fresh once more. "You were _gone_, and there was nothing I could do."

It isn't until Shiro wipes a thumb across his cheeks that Keith realizes he's crying. God, he must seem like such a kid, but it hurt, and he spent so long fearing for the worst that now, with Shiro in front of him, it almost doesn't feel real.

"Hey, I'm here," Shiro murmurs. He dips his head to press their foreheads together. "I'm right here."

They're so close that Keith would only need to angle upward just a bit, just a barely-there tip of his head and he could press his lips to Shiro's own and see for himself if they're as soft as they look. He wants to. God, he wants to. The heat in his belly is growing with every small brush of Shiro's body against his. "I thought I lost you," Keith breathes with a shudder.

"You won't lose me, Keith. I promise." Shiro's hand spreads wide and warm over Keith's lower back. Keith follows, pressing in one long line into Shiro's body as Shiro murmurs softly to him. "I've got you. I've got you, baby, and you’ve got me, I promise."

Tension, tight as piano wire, snaps deep in Keith's bones.

He rises on his toes to press his lips clumsily to Shiro's own. It's as natural as breathing; everything about Shiro is, from his smile to his friendship, up to right this second. Fingers twist into his hair and tug ever so lightly. Shiro's hand at his back pins him in place, but there's nowhere he'd rather be.

A sweep of Shiro's tongue at the seam of his mouth has Keith falling open. Shiro angles Keith's head with a gentle pull of his hair to deepen the kiss, and Keith keens around the slick slide of it, chasing the way it fills him. Keith's hands scrabble desperately at impossibly broad shoulders and the world narrows to the effortless way they move together.

God, it's too much. It's not enough. It's eating him alive, and he would give anything to let it continue.

_ Maybe he loves me too, _ some traitorous piece of him whispers in the back of his mind, barely recognizable over the satisfied hum Shiro gives when Keith tentatively nips at his lip. Maybe it's just a momentary distraction after nearly a year of non-stop battle. Shiro has just come to life after being captured again by the Galra, after all, and then he escaped, only to all but die in the suffocating expanse of empty space. Maybe it's just a celebration of them being alive. Whatever it is, Keith will take it.

Anything from Shiro is good enough.

Keith is only mildly aware of the buckles of his chestplate snapping apart up his side. Shiro's metal fingers delve into the newly exposed seam and brush over his ribs. His palm sinks to lay flat against Keith's flank and strokes up and down in the limited space.

His breath hitches at the contact and Keith jolts, breaking the kiss and panting against Shiro's mouth. Everything in him aches. Yearns, in a way unfamiliar and alien and oh so welcome. Shiro stares down at him with wide, dark eyes for a long, drawn-out moment that only ratchets up the quivering in Keith's stomach.

And then Shiro springs away like a frightened animal.

"Oh my god," Shiro breathes. His fingers rise to brush his lips almost absently, kiss-plump and shiny in the low light. "Keith, I'm—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't..."

The way Shiro trails off douses whatever had been growing in Keith's belly. _ Oh, _ Keith thinks blankly, but he must give it voice. Shiro's face falls and his heated gaze shutters.

"I'll just…" Keith's cheeks burn. He stoops to sweep up his forgotten jacket before bolting to the door. How was he stupid enough to have thought that this meant anything? "I'll, uh, I'll go."

The end is a little squeaky, but hell. He just—and Shiro—and everything was so good, too good, and oh, _ oh, _ it was going to be weird now. How could he have risked everything just because Shiro said something dumb? Shiro had almost died—of course, he was going to be sappy and stupid—and they're _friends. _

That's the worst thing, Keith realizes with growing horror. How is he supposed to face Shiro after this? It's a spacious castle, but it might as well be the size of a postage stamp now. Their rooms are in the same hallway. It's not like Keith could reasonably avoid him.

The thought of avoiding Shiro hurts almost as much as his unsteady rejection.

_God._

"Wait," Shiro says, a shade of panic coloring his voice.

Keith stops, his hand just above the keypad of the door. His heart beats in triple time in his throat as Shiro moves toward him.

"It's not—it's not that, what you're thinking. It's just—I don't—I don't want to pressure you."

Keith turns to face him, incredulous and hurt and angry all in turns. "Shiro." His hands shake, and he tells himself it's anger, not shame, not embarrassment. He steels himself against the way Shiro looks at him, eyes wide with something that looks like guilt. "Have you ever made me do something I didn't want to do?"

Shiro blushes and worries his lip. They're close enough that Keith can see the way the flush burns from beneath the slack collar of his shirt up his throat to settle across his cheekbones and ears, the scar across his nose pale and stark in comparison. "No…?"

"Then don't do this. Don't— don't reject me and call it concern. You don't get to make my choices for me. I'm almost twenty years old, I'm not a kid." Keith scrubs his hand over his face, mortified. That sounded childish even to his own ears. He clears his throat and tries again, firmer this time. "We're good, Shiro. We don't have to talk about it or anything. I'll see you later." Keith turns once more to the door.

"If you want to go, I won't stop you."

The unspoken _but _lingers between them, electric. Goosebumps prickle up Keith's skin in a long wave—they crawl up his legs, his belly, and his arms to skitter like lightning over his scalp. Shiro takes slow steps forward, closing the distance between them. Keith's caught between him and the door, and part of him wonders if there's a trap, because things don't go well for him and the last nine years on his own have proven that.

_But..._

"Yeah?" Keith asks, raspy and far more breathless than he'd like at the moment.

"Just… Talk to me. Help me understand." There's still an underlying sense of panic to Shiro’s words, though it's melting toward something else. "You say... "

Shiro gulps audibly behind him. "You say that I don't make you do things. But I know you," he insists lowly. "I know that, when you don't want to do something, I could convince you, eventually. Maybe with a bribe, maybe by doing whatever it is with you in solidarity, maybe in a million ways."

Keith shakes his head and turns around. Shiro's braced with his human hand against the wall beside the door jamb, concern painted over his face, leaving hardly a handspan of space between them. "You could never hurt me," he says stubbornly, and his voice shakes only a little. "You won't. I wouldn't let you."

"Don't say that—"

"It's true." The anger is a welcome heat, melting the embarrassment that sits like ice in Keith's stomach. "You know me, so you know this. Sure, maybe you help me see the reasons for doing things, but I only do them because, ultimately, I want to. Sparring, eating at regular intervals, not throwing punches in the mess hall. All of it. Because I want to."

Shiro's eyes are unreadable where they scan Keith's face. "But I'm the Black Paladin," he says slowly. "Your leader."

"And I've been Black's Paladin for months while you've been gone." Keith hesitates before raising his hands to Shiro's shoulders, the jacket forgotten, and breathes a sigh of relief when Shiro doesn't immediately pull away. Keith's fingers play in the fabric of Shiro's borrowed shirt. "I’m your Black Paladin, now, Shiro, as much as you are mine."

_ And maybe it's meant to be this way, _ he doesn't say, but the darkening of Shiro's gaze tells him the sentiment doesn't go unheard.

"Tell me." Shiro leans closer, just barely a breath separating them, as close to begging as Keith has ever heard him. The words send a lance of renewed excitement through him. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you anything. Please."

His hands shift up Shiro's shoulders to loop his arms around his neck. A tremble starts in his gut and flows out into every inch of him at the way Shiro's breath hitches. "I want wherever this goes," Keith says, and he pulls him down into a kiss.

It's like the desert blooming in the summer rains. Keith feels himself cracking open at the way Shiro pushes him into the door, his armor clanging where it collides against the metal surface. He doesn't care. There's only the heat of Shiro's tongue, the pressure of his mouth, the way his hand sneaks into the unbuckled seam of Keith's armor to land heavily at his hip.

It's…

_ Possessive, _ Keith thinks, drunk on the feeling. Like Shiro sinks into all his hollow places and claims them for his own with every demanding sweep of his tongue, slick and hot and scorching where it fills Keith's mouth.

Their hands fumble with the buckles that hold Keith's chestplate together. They pick the clasps apart, somehow, fingers taking to wandering time and again before the two of them refocus on the task. They reluctantly part when Keith tries to tug the plate over his head, only to catch on the pauldrons that still protect his shoulders.

Shiro growls.

Oh. _Oh, God._ Keith can't help the strangled whine that sneaks out of him at the sound or the way his body reacts; blood rushes in his ears as it plummets to his cock, hardening against the safe but distinctly uncomfortable tightness of his armor.

Shiro's gaze zeroes in on the offending pauldrons, hands paused where they paw at Keith's sides. He drags his fingers drag up Keith's arms and methodically, deliberately unbuckles the pauldrons. The pieces fall to the floor with a thud, the only sound filling the room besides heavy breathing.

Keith moves to pull the chestplate over his head again; Shiro's hands find his own in silent approval, and together they slide the armor off, letting the thick plates drop beside them without a second thought. Shiro immediately runs his fingers up and down Keith's newly revealed sides with a hum, blunt nails scraping across the strange fabric of the suit of under-armor. His hands eventually trail to unbuckle the plates that cover Keith's arms.

It's almost as good as being naked, and the mere idea of there being nothing left between them makes Keith dizzy. Desperation stirs a riot in his belly, and he rises on his toes to nip at Shiro's bottom lip, dragging along to mouth at the marble-hard line of his jaw. "Shiro…"

"Baby, baby, baby. I've got you." His broad hands slide down Keith's back to cup at the swell of his ass; Keith follows his lead, wrapping his legs around Shiro's waist when Shiro lifts him from the door.

A moan shakes out of Keith at the contact. He looks down into eyes blown so wide they're just black pools rimmed by icy grey. Shiro holds him tight, his arms like steel under Keith's thighs and across his back. Keith's gut squirms at the effortless strength.

"Yeah?" Shiro dips his head to whisper the word against Keith's shoulder. It's hot, scalding, even through the under-armor. Keith tangles his fingers into the unruly lengths of Shiro's hair and tugs experimentally. A shattered groan rocks out from Shiro's chest, and Keith swears he can feel it like a brand against his skin. He does it again out of pure fascination that drips into something dark and wanting.

"Please…" The word tears from him, rough in his mouth. Shiro's head snaps up to pin him with his stare, and Keith can only beg again. "Shiro..."

Their mouths clash again, a fumble of lips and teeth and tongue that has Keith keening. Shiro walks them to bed with little preamble and presses him into the mattress, blocking out the reedy fluorescent lights above them. Shiro is _massive,_ larger than life, and he fits between Keith's thighs as if he belongs there.

Shiro stares at Keith like a starving man before a feast.

Keith's eyes dart down his body to catch on the thick outline of Shiro's cock, hard and straining against the fabric of the loose shorts from his stint in the healing pod. He licks his lips and wills his voice not to crack under the strain of a short, breathy, "Please."

The utility belt comes off next. Shiro kneels at the edge of the mattress and presses long, lingering kisses down from Keith's mouth to his chest, scraping his teeth over the dips and juts of his body. Keith writhes beneath him. He should be ashamed of himself, some coiling snake in his mind reminds him. Embarrassed that it's so easy to get Keith out of his armor, that he's so eager to lay back and show Shiro his belly and beg and whine like a bitch in heat.

Shiro unbuckles the plates of his leg armor and tugs off his boots. He pulls Keith closer after they drop away, sliding him effortlessly over the mattress. His cheek is warm where it presses into the crease of Keith's thigh, and Keith drops his head and almost screams when Shiro places open-mouthed kisses over the bulge of his cock.

"Keith," Shiro whispers. It comes out dark and hot and awed, and it rips Keith open from the inside out. Strong fingers dig into the curves of Keith's hips and keep him pinned to the mattress while Shiro drags his mouth over the length of him, licking and sucking at his cock through the fabric.

Keith chances a look down, and the breath punches out of him at what he finds. A red flush stains Shiro's cheeks, painting his scar pale in comparison. His lips are kiss-swollen and shiny where they press into the suit. Shiro flashes a quicksilver smile up at him that cascades down Keith's spine like an earthquake, and his thighs tremble where Shiro holds them, his big hands wrapping halfway around Keith's legs.

"God," Keith whispers, reverent. Shiro's metal hand reaches for his own where it fists the blankets beneath them; Keith lets him take it, threading his fingers through Shiro's bangs to the powerful sound of Shiro's half-groan of approval.

Shiro does something with his tongue, wicked and almost cruel, that renders Keith into a vaguely human-shaped puddle of jelly. "Shiro," Keith mutters hoarsely, "I—oh, God." He lets Shiro move him, blissed out on how easy it is to let himself shift under those big, broad hands that have held Keith's entire world since he was sixteen and stupid. Shiro wants and Keith gives, because Keith wants and Shiro gives.

A feedback loop has never felt so good or right in the history of mankind. Keith just knows it.

"I've—_fuck_—I've never done this," he grits out, scrabbling to hold onto any sense of coherence and only halfway succeeding. Shiro sucks at the head of his cock at the damp spot just over the tip. Keith's grip on Shiro's hair tightens, and he thrusts erratically against his tongue.

Shiro's hands squeeze his thighs and he pulls off, his breath hot over the spit-wet fabric. "You've never…? Not even once?"

_ Who could it have been? _ Keith almost says. Shiro's eyes are black in the low light of the bedroom, and Keith squirms under their weight. _ It was always you. Only you. _

"I've done… stuff," Keith hedges as Shiro draws up his body, "by myself, but haven't…" His hand shifts to cup Shiro's nape and run through the long hair there. How many times had he gotten off to the thought of Shiro, his mouth, his hands, his incredible body? How many times had Shiro looked at him so tenderly, gaze full of friendly affection, only to be fodder for Keith's next guilty, private moment in a shower, or the furtive fumbling under his scratchy blanket?

He had tried—oh, how Keith had tried—not to envision Shiro like this, not to see his face or imagine his body, but hormones are hormones, and Keith isn't blind. Shiro is a god among men. Keith is lucky to walk in his shadow.

And now Shiro breathes Keith's name like a prayer, crawling up his body and petting his hands over the quivering muscles of Keith's belly. Whatever dark intensity filled his gaze before melts to something hot and sinful, and if Keith believed in God, he might wonder what the Devil was doing out in space.

"Oh, Keith," Shiro murmurs against his lips, voice like honey and thunder and the bone-dry dust storms of the Sonoran desert. "'M gonna make you feel so good."

Keith lets himself be turned over. Shiro's hands slide comfortingly over his back, solid and real, and Keith's breath stutters at the slow pull of the suit's zipper along his back. Shiro presses low words of praise and open-mouthed kisses to each nob of his spine as they are revealed.

"So good," Shiro promises, helping Keith slip the constricting suit down his body.

Shiro's hands are white-hot everywhere he touches Keith. The under-armor slides down past Keith's hips with hardly any resistance. He shivers, turns to look over his shoulder, and hisses at the way Shiro stares at him, dark eyes riveted to the dips and curves of his body. Shiro's hands pet Keith's thighs once the bodysuit gets thrown to the floor.

"You're sure?" Shiro asks, breathless, almost distracted. His gaze rakes over Keith hungrily as he pulls off his own clothes, the cotton-like fabric falling to the floor with a hush to reveal tight, taut muscles and golden skin.

Keith can feel it in his bones. A low coil of arousal pulses in his belly, tightening his every muscle. He shifts restlessly against the blankets and hisses at the friction on his cock. "Yes," Keith swears. His hips arch off the bed toward the heat of Shiro's body, and he shuffles his knees further apart to the sound of Shiro's hitched breath. "God, yes —please, _ please_."

Shiro's hands _ burn _ when he palms Keith's ass, pulling him apart with his thumbs. Keith presses his forehead against the blankets as those talented hands wander. Shiro's prosthetic is surprisingly warm—it's never quite cold, but also never as warm as his flesh hand—when his fingers play around Keith's hole.

"You're so beautiful," Shiro whispers. He trades hands and presses his flesh thumb against the pucker of Keith's entrance, teasing, a flirtation of movement. "Tell me when you're close, okay, baby? I want to hear it."

"Shiro—" Keith can't talk, can hardly breathe with Shiro talking like _ that_. His world narrows to the way Shiro pets him. Shiro's metal palm roams the curve of his ass while his human hand trails down to cup and fondle Keith's balls, barely skirting over the hard line of cock that twitches, leaking, between Keith's thighs.

"C'mon," Keith tries again. He wiggles back against the pressure of Shiro's hands with an urgency that rides through his blood. "Shir_ohhhhmyGod_—" 

It should be gross. It should be dirty, at the very least. Keith knows he probably still smells like sweat, no matter that he showered earlier this afternoon after a hard blow to the centurion droid tore through something that splattered him with hot oil.

But good God, Shiro's mouth on him feels like the first time Keith let himself fly off the edge of a cliff, eyes wide open and watching the earth rush to greet him, stomach crawling up into his throat with the nervous excitement that blazed in his belly.

Shiro licks at him, wet, hot, and nowhere near delicate. The moan that reverberates against Keith's skin crawls up his spine, raising every hair on Keith's body from his toes to the top of his head. His cock jumps against his pelvis, and he can feel pre-come dripping from the slit. Shiro's hands tilt him slightly and Keith bends, his back arched until it aches, his face pressed to the bed.

His tongue dips into him, filthy, possessive; Shiro holds Keith still with one forearm pressed into the curve of Keith's spine and one hand on his hip and easily pries him apart. Keith curses and keens and shakes beneath him, but, still, Shiro presses forward, tasting him, _ taking _ him. Shiro eats him alive until Keith is a gasping, sobbing mess, so close to breaking that a bare breath could snap him in two.

"Shi—_haaa_—Shiro," Keith pants. His fingers tear at the blankets beneath him, and Shiro hums behind him, pleased. "Close—_God, _ I'm close, please, please…" Keith dissolves into a litany of prayerful pleas, begging until his words blur together, only Shiro's name having any coherency in his delirious mind.

Shiro shifts and breaks away; distantly, Keith hears shuffling, the rustle of a drawer, and then Shiro returns, his heat a brand against the quivering of Keith's thighs. His metal fingers, slick with spit and newfound lube, tease Keith's twitching hole. Keith whines openly and shifts his legs apart further.

"So good," Shiro murmurs. "You're so good for me. Now just relax, let me take care of you." He rubs his flesh hand along Keith's flank as his prothetic finger presses forward and sinks in, almost glacial in his slowness.

A high, keening cry fills the room, plastered over Shiro's praise and echoing off the walls; Keith only belatedly shoves a balled fist against his mouth when he realizes the sound is his own.

Shiro opens him that way, dipping his head to play his tongue alongside his fingers, scissoring Keith open with two, then three hot, thick digits. It's methodical, as he is in all things; Shiro pulls stuttered gasps and shaking moans from Keith's throat with every movement.

The orgasm sneaks up on Keith and kicks him over the edge to plummet into freefall and scream into the mattress; he comes clenching around fingers that curl into his prostate without mercy. Shiro whispers praise hot in his ear, draped along Keith's back as he is, and shakes along with him.

"God, you’re so good for me." Shiro nips at the shell of Keith's ear, drawing a weak, breathy moan from Keith before trailing his lips down his neck. "You did so well."

Keith pants. Everything hurts, from his asshole to his fingernails, where he scrabbled at the blankets and then the mattress where he tore the sheets back. He doesn't regret a single thing, even when Shiro levers up off Keith's back and pulls those magic fingers out of him. Keith groans at the touch of Shiro's metal hand along his flank.

"You okay?"

"More." Keith's throat quivers, raw and sore, and his words shake. "I want more." Shiro's muffled cursing behind him sets the blood coursing toward his dick once more, barely flagging to half-mast after coming harder than Keith had ever in his life.

"You sure? We don't have to—"

"I want you inside me," Keith says in a rush. He comes to his hands and knees and rocks his hips back, searching blindly; Keith squeezes his eyes shut when Shiro grabs his ass with both hands, kneading and cupping in turns. "God, Shiro, I've wanted this for so long..."

Shiro swears again. "Okay," he says, and this time it's his words that shudder. He urges Keith's legs apart again and kneels between them, pulling him wide with one hand. "God, you're beautiful."

A spurt of lube drips down the crack of Keith's ass, cold over the stinging warmth of his hole. It's followed quickly by Shiro's fingers, a slow few pumps inside him, getting him even wetter and slicker until they retreat. Keith almost protests until Shiro notches the blunt head of his cock against his entrance.

"Yeah?"

Keith nods into the blankets, his nose scraping on the fabric. "Yeah."

Shiro's metal hand clutches at the ridge of Keith's hip. "Take a breath and relax, baby," he says.

It's a good thing he does; Shiro sinking into him punches Keith's breath from his chest. It's like he's burning from the inside out. Keith bucks up, hands scrabbling at the blankets. Shiro gentles his hold, still only halfway inside him.

"Kei—"

"Oh my god, don't stop, don't you fucking stop. Just—just gimme a sec." Keith pants the words out over his shoulder, looking desperately for Shiro's face. Shiro's brows are pinched, slanted hard over black-blown eyes, and sweaty hair sticks along his cheek and temple. His lips are red and bite-bruised. He's beautiful, and he's Keith's, and that knowledge stirs something dark and needy in his gut.

Keith rocks back, experimental, and watches Shiro's mouth fall open as Keith takes his cock deeper. A stuttered moan pulls from Shiro's lips with each minute movement. He could watch this all day, might even be allowed to, if—

No. No use thinking of ifs and mights. All that matters is the way Shiro's lips soundlessly form Keith's name when they finally press flush against each other, the way Shiro's cock fills him like some profound truth, always searched for and rarely found. This, Keith thinks, _ this _is what matters. His breath hitches low in his throat. He closes his eyes.

"Shiro," Keith sighs, and it's like the soft sound snaps something crystal-fragile between them.

Shiro's hands find his hip and shoulder, fingers gentle even as they dig into Keith's muscles. He rolls his hips, a slow, excruciating grind. "'M gonna make you feel so good," he mutters, more to himself than to Keith, and he does it again, the motion like a breeze sweeping along desert sand. "God, Keith, you're so—God." The metal hand at Keith's shoulder tightens its grip, and Shiro picks up the pace, his rhythm faltering for a beat or two before righting itself once more.

Every deep, purposeful stroke steals Keith's breath away. He can almost feel it in his throat—and that's a dizzying prospect, Keith thinks feverishly, tasting him, letting Shiro fill his mouth and use him. It makes him lightheaded, just the thought of Shiro spurting down his throat. Keith's cock bounces against his pelvis with every thrust, leaking and leaving pearls of precome on Keith's skin.

His hand sneaks down. Keith needs it so badly, to come like his, impaled on Shiro's cock. It's all he's wanted for a shamefully long two, almost three years; Keith had imagined it from the first time Shiro had sleepily sing-songed a soft _ "aww, little baby" _ at a drowsy, younger Keith, bundled up in blankets during a weekly movie night with Shiro and Matt nearly nine months after Keith came to the Garrison.

Keith had never been the same.

"Don't."

Keith whines but does as he's told. "But I—"

Shiro leans forward to lick a bead of sweat from Keith's nape. "I've got you, baby," he says, and Keith melts, lets Shiro bend him further, pressing Keith's chest and shoulders into the mattress. Shiro draws Keith's hips higher and nestles his metal hand in the too-long strands of Keith's hair.

"I've got you," he murmurs again. Shiro's flesh hand digs into Keith's hip, and then he begins to _ move. _

Keith drops his head, unable to fight the way his body trembles with every rough, purposeful thrust; he moans, open-mouthed, into the blanket. Tears sting his eyes and trail hot over his cheeks. Every nerve feels like it's been flayed, and his very skin burns. Vaguely Keith hears himself but can't bother making sense of the plaintive noises tearing from his throat.

He could die like this, overstimulated and needy in turns—fuck the war and fuck the fate of the universe, he could die a very happy man.

Shiro pulls and pushes, leveraging the position to sink deep until it feels like they might friction-weld and become as inseparable in truth as others have snickered. He pulls out just until his cockhead stretches Keith's rim, until Keith whines and wiggles, and then slams back in, again and again, pushing Keith up the mattress until Keith has to brace his hands against the wall.

And then Shiro stops, his panting loud in the quiet room.

"I want to see you," Shiro says, just this side of demand. "I want to see you come on my cock. I wanna watch you shake apart."

Keith licks his too-dry lips and nods, unable to speak. The flush that has taken to painting his face burns hotter, and he knows he must be blushing down to his toes at the low, graveled tone of Shiro's words.

Shiro pulls out just enough to help shift Keith away from the wet spot of his earlier orgasm and onto his back. His hands cradle Keith's hips for a moment as he slides a pillow beneath them.

Keith watches, blissed out and dazed; Shiro coaxes Keith's legs around the planes of his waist. From this angle, he can see when Shiro nestles his cock in the cleft of his ass, the head slipping through the slick sheen of lube. A delirious laugh threatens to bubble up from Keith’s throat at the sight of Shiro fumbling for the bottle again; such a gentleman, Keith thinks hazily when Shiro squirts more of the lube between his legs, the liquid catching on his sac and dripping down over his hole.

"You're beautiful," Keith murmurs, and Shiro smiles and dips his head, pillowing his mouth to Keith's own as he presses inside once more.

It's just as world-shattering as the first time. Shiro brands him, body and soul, and Keith can only clutch his hands at his back, nails raking long, jagged lines along Shiro's spine. His cock rubs between them and it's almost too much. Keith is one single, overstimulated nerve, a fact made devastatingly clear when Shiro shifts to pummel against his prostate with each deep pump.

"I'm cl—clo—" The words shift into a long, incoherent moan. Keith digs his nails into Shiro's back and Shiro shudders, hisses, and _throws _ Keith's legs over his shoulders to bend him in half.

"Is this what you need?" Shiro demands lowly, punctuating his words with swift, punishing strokes. His hands pull Keith onto his cock, bruising where they grip Keith's thighs. "Fuck, you're so tight." Shiro moves and wraps a hand around Keith's dripping cock and pulls his fist to match the growing erratic rhythm of his thrusts.

Keith doesn't answer, only bucks as best as he can between the two points of contact, and suddenly he's flying, back arching and lifting him from the mattress helplessly. His scream is muffled only by Shiro's mouth, his tongue sweeping inside to steal the noise from Keith's throat. Come spills hot between them and Shiro groans into Keith's mouth.

"Fuck, Keith, I—_fuck_!" Shiro mashes their mouths together once more, almost painful where they connect with too much teeth and not enough coordination. A gasping cry breaks free from his chest and his hips stutter into the muscles of Keith's ass. Shiro's cock pulses against Keith's walls as he comes, painting Keith as his own.

They lay tangled together, panting as they come down from the blissed-out high. Keith can feel his heartbeat in his ears, in his gut, in his ass where his rim twitches around Shiro's softening cock. Shiro, to his credit, seems similarly affected; he trembles with aftershocks as he pulls away, and his limbs quake where they lay collapsed into each other. Keith rubs lazy, tired circles into the meat of Shiro's shoulder.

Shiro rises from the bed with a groan once his breath evens out again. His muscles shift, the muted light dancing across the planes of his back and shoulders as he pads toward the tiny private bathroom.

Red marks, long trenches dug with mindless, scrabbling hands, peek back at Keith—proof that, whatever tonight is, at least it is _ real. _

A towel gets found, dampened, and played across Keith’s sweaty skin when Shiro returns to the bed. Keith hums and closes his eyes, lets Shiro take care of him. Shiro’s fingers follow the wetness left with his ministrations and he makes an uncertain, shaky noise that perks Keith’s lax attention.

"Don't go," Shiro murmurs. He tosses the towel away before falling into bed. Shiro noses along Keith's temple and presses a tired kiss to the sweaty skin. "Stay here tonight. With me."

Keith grunts. "Need new sheets," he says in sleepy protest. His hips ache, and his muscles quiver—and fuck, his ass is going to complain for days when he needs to pilot, but it's worth it. He smiles inwardly at the self-satisfied glow that blooms in him. Even if it never happens again, Keith will have this forever.

Shiro pouts at the deflection. Keith can feel it against the skin of his cheek, interrupting a string of lazy kisses Shiro had been trailing down his face. "Okay," Keith relents, like there was any doubt, like there could possibly be any other answer, but his stomach still flip-flops. "As long as you want me around.”

"Silly Keith," Shiro yawns. He pulls the messy blanket away to reveal just the Altean equivalent of a top sheet and shuffles Keith under the thin fabric, tucking Keith into the curl of his flesh arm on the outside edge of the bed. Keith sees it for what it is: an opportunity to run, if he needs it, the chance to retreat if he wants.

"I'll always want you around." The words, heavy with promise, come out slurred with sleep. Shiro tucks Keith close into the warmth of his body and smiles against his hairline.

_ Don't make promises you can't keep_, that cynical part of Keith murmurs, but Keith tamps it down and slings his arm across Shiro's chest, using Shiro's bicep as a pillow. “Okay,” he murmurs, though Shiro’s already dreaming.

Keith is, too, even before he closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

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